(Imagine here a picture of the pool in darkness. Thank AOL for not being able to insert it)
Montana was on a couchette with her ear-buds in on the west side of the pool deck. This is highly unusual. She normally sets up camp at the north end of the pool, by the scraggly shrubs. Jim and Gary, the new couple who moved into 805 were down there, and Jim was puffing one of his persistent cigarettes.
It was sort of weird. I make a practice of not smoking when Montana is around- she is a hyper green person with a vast knapsack of real and imaginary maladies, of which an aversion to second-hand smoke is one.
Being a new guy, Jim apparently is not aware of Montana’s sphere of personal space, which expands to the entire pool deck when she is there. Gary was paddling near me, and I had allowed the iPod to get low on charge, and I could not defend myself by sticking the earphones in and treading water in solitude.
The sun was down, as the rhythm of the changing season advances, and the anxiety of the imminent closing of the pool was heightened in the darkness. Gary was chatty, and since distraction of any sort from the boredom of the repetitive stroking was welcome.
I told him about some of the history of Big Pink, and the neighborhood around it, and how things came to be the way they are. Jim puffed his cigarette in his chair on the pool deck, a long way from the designated smoking area that had provoked a pitched battle in front of the Condo Board three years ago.
That little weasel who was appointed without election to the Board to fill a vacancy had pulled a parliamentary maneuver, not under “old business,” but as new, and got the pool declared a non-smoking zone after the period for general comment was done.
It was policy by decree, as far as I was concerned. There was enough of that crap going around and I got up on my high horse about it.
The Pool Rules had been circulated before the beginning of the season, and there was no mention of a change of policy. It was a highly anticipated review of the rules after the famous Revolt of the Grandmas the season before, and the young crowd that held reckless buffet dinners on the pool deck in direct contravention of the Rules.
Smoking had been permitted anywhere outside (and in, for that matter- check the giant ashtray on the trash container in the foyer) since 1964.
I commenced a Quixotic quest to collect signatures to designate a little area for puffing, right adjacent to where the grill sits outside the fence. Between the two sources of smoke, I figured that was a reasonable compromise against the Nanny Building, since I think it is a slippery slope from the pool to banning smoking in our units, or getting rid of dogs, or any of the other hot-button issues that go with communal living.
I used to live by the pool. It was the way to survive a Washington summer, and between the Kindle and a thermos of clear beverages and pack of Luckies and periodic plunges in the crisp blue waters, life was about perfect.
Montana was a problem, as was the little Creole jerk up in 507 who reportedly has asthma and wears that appalling Speedo the women find so offensive.
As things played out, I accepted the inconvenient triumph of having an area and avoided smoking down there whenever Montana set up camp directly next to the designated smoking area, daring anyone to use it.
The little Creole was mostly a no-show last season, and his issues were moot. It might have been that anonymous letter to the Board accusing him of exposing himself to the women on the pool deck, or perhaps it was the threat I uttered to him after his fulmination at the annual meeting that if he ever screwed with me again I would rip his head off and stick it where the sun did not shine.
“But have zee asthma,” he said indignantly.
“La souffrance d’autrui est toujours supportable,” I hissed back with menace. “Do not sit down next to me when you can see I am smoking and tell me to put out my cigarette, you jerk.”
Anyway, between the injury this year and the difficulty in hauling support equipment down to the pool deck, things we totally different this year. The pool was not so much a playground as it was a facility for therapy, and I had to say that when Jim lit up fairly close to the pool, I was a little disconcerted. He had no history on this matter, nor the fact that Montana was the poster girl for the evils of Second Hand Smoke.
I kept my mouth shut last night, and just talked to Gary to kill time until I got to an hour’s worth of exercise. There was going to be some office crap to deal with when I was done, and I did the slow motion extrication from the water via the ladder, careful not to put all my weight on the damaged leg.
My stuff- glasses, canvas ammunition bag, smokes and slippers were piled on the table that Alex and I share for the evening swim, and Montana was in that unusual spot right next to it. Back in the day, I had hoped for that to be the designated area and now I didn’t care that much. I was toweling down when Montana took out the earplugs and removed the eye protection she was wearing in the dark.
The roar of cicadas filled the air, the growl of the summer that knows it is dying. I said as much to her, and got back a blast that explained why she had changed her usual place on the deck.
“You did it,” she said angrily.
Crap, I thought. I was minding my own business, and have not been yelled at, except for the little Creole, since the divorce. The absence of that sort of daily vituperation has left me unaccustomed to vitriol, and it caught me a little off guard.
“What are you talking about?” I asked warily, looking for my flip-flops.
“You were behind that smoking area. You started that petition when we had a non-smoking pool.”
“You had a non-smoking pool for a couple weeks. We had been able to smoke down here for a half century,” I said, my voice lowering. “And there is a lot less smoke here than there was. And I don’t smoke around you.”
“Well, he is.”
“You are being a little hostile,” I said slowly. “Cut the claptrap and talk to him, then.”
I gathered up my stuff, slung the towel over my shoulder and walked away, flip-flop. I said goodnight to Konrad the Polish lifeguard, and assured him I would see him tomorrow and squished out the gate into the darkness.
This was way too emotional for a trip to the pool. I wondered if I should talk to Jim and explain the lay of the land, that the smoking area was largely a symbolic area, not one in which to blow smoke in Montana’s face. Funny, I thought, how things can change. Not that you would die laughing.
Now, the matter of the little Creole is something completely different.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com